


First

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Canon, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, John isn't a Saint, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Sherlock Is a Virgin, Subtext, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:01:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4576131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The infamous dispatch box of John H Watson, MD, had a false bottom.</p><p>The manuscripts it contained were never, EVER meant for publication.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First

**Author's Note:**

> I slammed this together in two relatively short writing sessions after an hour of wakefulness. Not sleeping well is fabulous for writers. For historical references to specific words, please see the book My Secret Life.

The infamous dispatch box belonging to a certain John H. Watson, MD, buried in the vault at Cox and Co, which held a seemingly endless supply of unpublished manuscripts—tales deemed too scandalous or delicate for publication, at least during the lifetimes of the participants.  
  
What very few people know is that this dispatch box had a small trick to it: it had a false bottom, and the slender space between that and the real bottom of the box was crammed tightly with many, many pages in Doctor Watson’s characteristic hand. Apparently some things that Sherlock Holmes’ “Boswell” recorded were even MORE scandalous than those manuscripts found on top; things he never, ever meant to be published.  
  
This particular manuscript has clearly been read many, many times. The pages are worn and frayed. In some places, the faded ink has been written over to bring out the words again; sometimes in ink and sometimes in pencil.  
  
What is interesting about this is that the handwriting in those instances is different—it is not the doctor’s. Someone other than Doctor Watson read and marked this many, many times.  
  
*  
  
I will not deny that living with Mr Sherlock Holmes is, at times, a challenge, trying to one’s patience and occasionally one’s good reputation. However, that is frequently balanced out by the pleasures it provides: the private concerts, the excellent lodgings, the usefulness of both my medical skills and my literary aspirations, and of course the adventures. In other manuscripts I have described in detail many of his habits. Eccentric as they were, I must admit now (and I will be the only person to ever read this—he’s away for a few days and I will have it safely locked away, out of the flat, by the time he returns) that there were also habits and behaviours that I simply could not record; they were not fit for public consumption and most likely never will be. In addition, I am a moral man, and so I quite reluctantly must add here that I have not been completely forthcoming about some of my own inclinations. But that being said, I feel compelled to record certain events which transpired between us, and I pray that no one ever comes across it.  
  
It was a Wednesday. The weather had gradually been moving from the chill of winter through the damp of spring and finally into the earliest warmth of summer. We were enjoying the open windows—airing out the Baker Street flat as often as possible was a necessity due to my friend’s less-endearing habit of smoking the nastiest of shag tobaccos at an alarming rate of consumption and his frequent forays into his undeniably brilliant but often volatile chemical experiments.  
  
I awoke at approximately nine o’clock but had no inclination to rise. I stretched and rolled over, fully intending to get at least another hour’s sleep. We had had a fascinating but also physically rigorous case, and I was feeling the effects of it in my leg and shoulder. Perhaps a trip to the Turkish baths was in order; the steam always did wonders for my aching muscles, and I was sure that Sherlock would welcome a visit as well.  
  
I have to explain that, despite the format and language of my published works chronicling my companion’s exotic life, we do not refer to each other as Holmes and Watson. No, in the privacy of our own home, I am John and he is Sherlock. My editor deems this too intimate for the more timid readers of my tales, so I allow the fiction. Sherlock doesn’t care either way. In public we do, of course, address one another by our surnames, as is only appropriate, and it is surprisingly easy to switch back and forth.  
  
Indeed, in general, when we are at home with only ourselves for company, there is an ease—a casualness—that we would never expose to the public. Those seventeen steps up to our sitting room have proven invaluable many times as we scramble to put both ourselves and the flat to rights. More than once, my companion has shoved hypodermic, case and all, into the cushions of his armchair. As for dress, Sherlock always has a dressing gown handy but we are both often, to be completely honest, not decent. Dear, patient Mrs Hudson, who learned after only two extremely awkward encounters, has become an expert in delaying the arrival of an unexpected guest at our door when she suspects that there isn’t a shirt to be found between the two of us, Sherlock is barefoot, and my hair is uncombed.  
  
I have alluded to my somewhat Bohemian leanings in my earliest published word, but it goes much further than that. After my experiences in Afghanistan, the sight of my flatmate lounging on the floor on a pile of cushions, clad in nothing but a bedsheet wrapped toga-style around his gaunt frame, hardly gets my attention.  
  
But this particular Wednesday morning, events occurred that have clearly changed my outlook. As I said, I was resting indolently in my bed, pondering the benefits of rising versus the benefits of lying in. Mrs Hudson has not brought breakfast up. When we were hard on a case, and Sherlock out all night, she was in the habit of waiting to be rung for, as she had no way of predicting when we might rise and be ready to eat.  
  
The case had been a rather wearing one. Upon its culmination and our return to the flat from the police station, I had been frankly alarmed at Sherlock’s condition. As usual, he had eschewed food and rest while the game was afoot, as he rather dashingly put it, but this time he had also been involved in a rather brutal struggle on a rotting dock at the steaming edge of the Thames. He had, ultimately, taken the fiend down, but only at the price of a horrendous bash to his forehead from a heavy bit of tackle.  
  
“I’m all right. I’ve got an extraordinarily hard head,” he had told me, but his pale features and shaking hands told me otherwise. He had excused himself at some point as we were giving our statements to the police, and I am sure that he was sick.  
  
So when we had finally gotten home, I had gotten out my medical bag and checked him while Mrs Hudson fretted and retrieved cold clothes for me to lay gently on the broad, pale brow.  
  
“That’s going to bruise rather spectacularly,” I told him.  
  
“I’m not surprised,” he had replied. “I admit that my head aches rather badly.”  
  
At that point I encouraged him to have something to eat and drink and kept him discussing the case. There were no signs of slurred speech or unfocused vision, so I finally suggested that he get some sleep, as I was ready to turn in myself. He did so readily enough. I retired to my bedroom and crawled rather gratefully under the bedclothes. I could see the gas light from Sherlock’s bedroom under the door that connected our chambers, and was relieved when it finally was turned down.  
  
So that brought us to the morning. I had slept soundly, and after several minutes, I realized that I was not going to go back to sleep. I decided that I might as well rise and ring for coffee and some breakfast. Sherlock could sleep as long as he wanted and we would sort out a meal for him when he rose.  
  
I slid out of my bed and used the pot (another act of daily life that my publisher invariably struck out), then went over to the window and opened it wide, breathing the fresh air in deeply. And then I heard a sound that was quite surprising. I turned and strode toward the door connecting my bedroom to Sherlock’s. “Sherlock?” I called out. “Did you call for me?”  
  
“Yes. Please come in.”  
  
Alarmed—for why else would he call me into his chamber unless he was ill?—I opened the door and stood at the threshold. “Are you all right? Is it your head?” I asked urgently. The figure of my friend, still supine in his bed, did nothing to alleviate my concern, especially when he did not reply to my inquiry. I moved across the worn carpet to his bedside, barely cognizant of the fact that I was clad in just my nightshirt.  
  
“No, it’s not my head, but I am in need of some medical advice nonetheless.” His voice was low.  
  
“What’s the matter?” I demanded. I sat next to him on his bed, uninvited. It was certainly not the first time. Sherlock tended to need my medical skills more often than he cared to admit—and far more often than I related to the public.  
  
“I have a slight problem,” he admitted, “and I’m not certain how to treat it properly.”  
  
I noticed then that he was holding his bedclothes away from himself in an odd way. “Do you have a rash again?” I asked in some amusement. He was prone to them; one had been brought on by a particularly grotesque battle in ankle-deep, rank mud. That he had developed one after the battle along the Thames would not have surprised me in the least, and I kept a supply of a soothing bran mixture of my own concoction in which I would encourage him to soak to alleviate his distress.  
  
“No,” he replied. “It’s more a physical oddity than an ailment.”  
  
Intrigued, I reached out to pull the bedclothes down. “Let me see,” I instructed, and was surprised when he clutched the bedsheets to himself somewhat more tightly. “What’s the matter?” I demanded again. I was getting a bit impatient. I wanted my coffee. I rose and pulled the bedclothes down rather firmly, jerking them from his long, nervous fingers.  
  
The first thing I noticed was that he was not wearing a nightshirt. I know he had changed into one when he had withdrawn for the evening, for I had popped my head in to make sure he was all right before I retired myself. I glanced around and saw that it was now on the floor at the foot of his bed.  
  
So now, due to my rather enthusiastic unveiling, he was entirely revealed. Exposed. Thanks to the height of the sun, the room was not dark even with the gas turned down.  
  
I admit, despite my profession, that I was slightly taken aback by the sight.  
  
Sherlock was, to put it bluntly, stiff.  
  
Now, I am a doctor, and an ex-soldier, and not at all unfamiliar with the more private functions of human bodies. I had also been a husband in every sense of the word. Most importantly, I was a healthy, vital male with an organ of my own, and therefore not at all unfamiliar with this condition.  
  
[There is an aside, written sideways along the main text: I have related that my first wife had died rather suddenly, hence my return to Baker Street, but the truth was that I had discovered that I was not cut out to be a married man and had left her. My publisher would not hear of me revealing this unsavoury bit about myself, so die she must.]  
  
However, this was not my organ, and although Sherlock was frequently my patient, first and foremost he was my friend, and this fell under the category of decidedly inappropriate.  
  
“You see?” he asked rather plaintively. “It won’t go away.”  
  
I wanted very much to sit down again, but at the same time I wanted to exit the room as quickly as I possibly could. I remained where I was as a compromise. I did turn my head, though, for the sake of propriety. “Sherlock,” I said hesitantly, “why are you showing me that?”  
  
“It won’t go away. I don’t know what to do about it.”  
  
I admit to being struck dumb for a bit as I worked this out in my head. My mouth was dry when I finally asked, rather stupidly I admit, “What do you mean it won’t go away?”  
  
“Usually when I wake like this, it goes away by itself before I get out of bed. This morning, though, it won’t, and I haven’t the slightest idea what to do about it.”  
  
Of its own volition, my body turned towards the door.  
  
“Don’t go. You have to help me,” he begged.  
  
Sometimes I don’t know why I put up with him. I turned back. “No, I don’t have to help you. This is a problem that is entirely up to you to fix on your own,” I explained.  
  
He frowned at me; it was rare to see him so puzzled. “What do you mean?” he demanded.  
  
“I mean just that. You need to take care of that by yourself.”  
  
He stared at me in confusion, his voice tight with distress as he replied, “But what do I _do_?”  
  
What did he do? Was he really asking me that? I looked carefully at his fine features; at the knot his drawn brows created.  
  
Doctor and ex-soldier and wife be damned, I did not know how to articulate an answer. “You know…” I stumbled, aware that my face was turning a brilliant scarlet. “You take care of it.”  
  
A blank stare.  
  
“With your hand,” I added.  
  
At this point I was beginning to sense that this was an actual problem and not simply my mad flatmate attempting to drive me mad as well. For it was then that one of the most intelligent men in all of England looked down at his own hand and then at his—circumstance—in utter confusion.  
  
“You’re on about something,” he mumbled, starting down at himself.  
  
“Sherlock!” I finally cried out. “Do you really have no idea what I’m talking about?”  
  
He shook his head, a look of desperation marring his beautiful features.  
  
I gave up. I threw propriety and embarrassment to the wind. “Good Lord, man! Haven’t you ever frigged before?”  
  
Approximately two minutes went by, during which I was aware that I was now perspiring rather profusely as we attempted to stare one another down.  
  
“Frigged?” he finally asked.  
  
“Yes! You know—used your hand to release the pressure?”  
  
“No. Why? Should I have?”  
  
This was all a bit too much for me. I moved toward the bed and, with a great deal of hesitation, sat back down. At least from this position I was looking at his face rather than his body. That made it a bit easier to speak candidly.  
  
“To be blunt, yes. In fact, I can’t believe that you haven’t. Did it not occur to you?”  
  
“How could it occur to me when I haven’t the slightest notion to what you are referring?”  
  
I took a deep breath. Could this be? How could this be? “How can you possibly not know about frigging?” I demanded.  
  
“It must not be important.”  
  
All right. I did realise at this point that I was dealing with a rather atypical man. He could very well be telling the truth. After all, monks didn’t consider it important, did they? They weren’t supposed to, at any rate. And Sherlock Holmes had a large number of things rattling around in his great brain that were, to him anyway, far more important. Why wouldn’t he? He had once described his mind as an attic in which he only kept what was useful to his work and scientific inquiries. This was a man who didn’t recall that the earth revolved around the sun. He could very well be a man who didn’t understand the need for an occasional healthy release of tension, nor how to go about it when he did find it necessary.  
  
Which he did.  
  
I had seen the evidence quite clearly myself.  
  
“All right,” I acquiesced. “I will take you at your word that you don’t know what I’m talking about. I am a bit surprised; it doesn’t seem like entirely useless information to most men.”  
  
“I’m not most men,” he pointed out, and I had to chuckle a bit at that. No, he most certainly was not.  
  
“Didn’t your father ever have a talk with you?”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“About… relations. Between men and women.”  
  
“Oh! That. Yes. He gave me a book. Several books.”  
  
“Were they medical books?” I hazarded.  
  
He nodded. “And my first book about bee-keeping,” he added helpfully.  
  
“Ah.” I nodded. I was beginning to truly grasp (no pun intended) the situation.  
  
Sherlock Holmes had no idea how to relieve his stiff prick; he honestly, truly hadn’t a clue.  
  
And now it had somehow become my issue, and I wasn’t entirely sure how to solve this particular quandary.  
  
*  
  
We sat for a few minutes, during which Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and looked plaintively at me. He finally broke the silence. “Are you going to help me?” he appealed.  
  
“If I must… yes. Yes, I will help you, Sherlock. I’m trying to think of how to go about it.”  
  
He frowned, considering. “Tell me what it entails.”  
  
“Tell you what frig… releasing yourself entails? All right. I might as well get right to it.” My face felt hot and I was sure it was scarlet again. I settled myself a bit more comfortably on the mattress. “To keep it clinical—an approach that is I am sure more familiar to you—I will use medical terms. How would that be?”  
  
“If it’s easier for you, that’s fine. I don’t really understand why you’re so flustered.”  
  
“All right. Firstly, the reason your organ is so stiff is that it is engorged with blood. From a purely medical point of view, the only reason this happens is to allow you to… ah… penetrate a female with the purpose of… fertilising her. To get her with child.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“However, God has ensured that we human beings do this as often as possible—that we propagate as a species—by making this act of fertilization pleasurable. Quite pleasurable. In fact it is probably the most pleasurable thing most people experience in their lives.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
“But the result of that is that human beings prefer to engage in those pleasurable actions even if they do not intend to have a baby.”  
  
He frowned.  
  
“It’s like eating sweets when you’re not really hungry but you just like the taste of them.”  
  
“Ah.” That he truly did understand; he had a weakness for sweets.  
  
“So, sometimes a man’s organ becomes stiff and needs to be relieved even when there is no female to inseminate.”  
  
“I see. But…”  
  
I held my hand up, anticipating his question. “There is a way of relieving it without a female being involved.”  
  
He looked visibly relieved. “What is it?” he asked naively.  
  
“It’s called masturbation, although the rougher term is frigging. Well, one term for it.”  
  
“I’ve heard of masturbation,” he allowed, “but I never really understood it. What does it entail?”  
  
Oh, Sherlock. How could you not know this? And why does it have to be me who explains it? I took a deep, calming breath. I was a medical man and we were both adults. There was no reason I should be any more uncomfortable with this than with explaining to him, for example, the effect of nicking the vena cava with a bullet, and the subsequent treatment.  
  
“It entails… oh, God, Sherlock. Are you really going to make me explain this to you?”  
  
He looked befuddled and upset. He had no idea why I was so flustered.  
  
So, no embarrassment on his part. Just frustration.  
  
Right.  
  
So I swallowed and swore to myself that I had earned a rather large drink later that day. Then I took a deep breath and explained: “You need to rub it. You can rub it against something or you can use your hand.”  
  
“Then what?”  
  
“You keep rubbing it until you feel very, very nice and rather sticky.” And as I said that, I became aware of what I was saying, and more importantly of the effect it was having on me. I was, after all, a healthy male in the prime of my life, and without the company of a wife. I considered my circumstances. Sherlock was hopelessly confused and frustrated, and I was rapidly joining him in his frustration. I needed release now just as much as he did.  
  
I looked into his grey eyes and it was as if I could see the solar system reflected in them. I took a deep breath. “Would it help if I demonstrated?” I breathed.  
  
“Oh, yes,” he replied, looking back at me intently. “Please.”  
  
I looked down at myself. I was only wearing a nightshirt, after all, and the single layer of thin fabric was doing absolutely nothing to disguise my current… situation. He glanced at it keenly. “Yours is stiff, too?” he asked.  
  
“Well, yes. It is now.”  
  
“Was it from talking about it?”  
  
“Yes. Move over.”  
  
He slid over a bit and pulled himself up to lean against the headboard. I propped myself up against it myself. My nightshirt was still covering my body; it looked oddly out of place next to his pale, bare skin and… It was a rather nice mauve, I reflected before looking away.  
  
“Can I?” he requested hesitantly. His hand was hovering near the hem of my nightshirt.  
  
In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought to myself. “Yes,” I heard myself say.  
  
The air in Sherlock’s bedroom was cool; he had apparently opened his window sometime during the night. The cool air felt marvellous on my hot, now bare, skin.  
  
Being on the receiving end of Sherlock Holmes’ keen eye is an invasive, intense experience even when one is clothed. I have never forgotten my shock over his very first statement to me; how had he known I had been in Afghanistan and what else was I giving away? What else was revealed to his all-seeing eye? I had become a bit more accustomed to it over our time together, but it still could feel like being skinned—from the inside.  
  
His queer grey eyes raked over me; over what he could see now that he had pulled the tail of my nightshirt up to approximately my waist. Despite our bohemian lifestyle—and one unfortunate night on which I overindulged at my club and Sherlock was kind enough to tend to me in my extremity—this was the first time I had been completely, utterly exposed to my mate.  
  
I must record this; I don’t believe that the memory will fade over time, but I want ensure that I never forget what I was feeling at that very moment.  
  
Instead of embarrassment or rage or shame—which would have been entirely acceptable in those circumstances—I felt [and there was an interesting change of the appearance of the ink at this point in the manuscript; the pressure on the pen had clearly changed] pleasure.  
  
“Yours looks different from mine,” he breathed, not taking his eyes off it.  
  
“There is a great deal of variety in the human race,” I supplied, and bless me or curse me, I felt myself become even stiffer at his scrutiny.  
  
“Ah,” he nodded, absorbing this fact the way he would the train schedule. He looked from it to my face, a thoughtful expression lighting his gaunt features. “You are embarrassed—no, you were. But now you’re feeling something else. This is fascinating, John. Please go on.”  
  
I couldn’t help it. At that, I smiled in genuine amusement. Only my dear friend would choose this moment to analyse my reaction.  
  
“Yes, I am,” I agreed. “I’m feeling rather eager,” I admitted.  
  
“Eager to gain release?” he clarified.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Please show me,” he requested, and his naturally deep baritone was even deeper than usual.  
  
I recall feeling as if there was something in my throat and swallowed rather hard. “All right,” I finally agreed, “but you know that this must never be mentioned outside of this room again.”  
  
He considered this. “But what if…?”  
  
“All right. Outside of the flat, and never in front of anyone else. Agreed?”  
  
He nodded, and I took the opportunity to look closely at his features. I haven’t dwelt on them much in my scribbles—well, I have commented numerous times on his extreme thinness and sharpness of features, and of his piercing eyes—but I am not even certain until that very moment how aware I was of how very beautiful he was. He was pale—that was his normal state of being—with the darkest of chestnut hair. Despite his constant efforts to tame it, it lay in curls around his temples and the nape of his neck. I have described his peculiar eyes; I have referred to them as grey, but that is only for lack of a better word—or words. Sherlock’s eyes were arresting, to put it mildly—and I had never seen (and have never seen since) anything like them. They were grey—but also blue and green and gold and silver. Others have observed this peculiarity, of course (The Woman in particular seemed rather fixed on them), but I do not think that anyone else had ever noted that the predominant colour of his eyes at any time reflected his mood. Blue meant he was happy and energetic—seen most frequently at the start of a case. Green was anger and his eyes really did flash when he was furious. Gold was most noticeable when he was extremely captivated and engaged—usually about one of his own experiments. And grey—or more accurately silver—was a shade that I suspect I alone had the opportunity to observe.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes were silver when he was tired, or depressed, or under the influence of his insidious cocaine or--as he was now—turning his keen mind and observational skills on himself, and on us.  
  
This line of thought brought me back to the present, and more particularly back to the situation at hand. [There is a strong horizontal line directly in front of this last word—as if Doctor Watson considered striking it out and then decided to leave it be; the pun was just too delicious, apparently.] I decided that I had vacillated enough.  
  
I was acutely aware of Sherlock’s silver eyes; they were locked on me as I slowly raised my hand to myself and took a hold of my rigid organ.  
  
I shut my own eyes, partially because it was what I usually did when thusly engaged, and partially because I found Sherlock’s stare a bit unsettling. Not in an unpleasant way [The manuscript here is shown as it was written; a rare lapse in absolutely correct punctuation. What follows exhibits some deviation from standard grammar as well, and is presented exactly as penned.]  
  
My eyes shut, I became more aware of my other senses. Sherlock was silent; I couldn’t even hear him breathing. I was certainly aware of him in other ways, of course. The surprising heat emanating from his thin body, for example, as he reclined next to me, our legs pressed together. I wasn’t entirely sure when that had happened. I admit that I did not move my leg away. I could, I realised, smell him. This was different from his often noxious cloud of tobacco smoke or latest experiment. Despite his undeniably odd lifestyle and habits, Sherlock Holmes was quite meticulous with his toilet. He bathed regularly, applying a sponge and warm water when a tub bath wasn’t practical. He kept his clothing perfectly clean (except of course when rolling in mud along the Thames) and was fastidious about collars and cuffs; about a brushed high hat and shined boots. As a result, he himself didn’t actually have an odour. Not an unpleasant one, at least. When I shut my eyes and think about it, what comes to mind is: Tobacco. Ink. Starch. Wool. Peppermint. The oil in his hair—an attempt to tame his riotous curls—did not have a strong odour as some do. His breath was, as a result of scrupulous use of tooth-brush and tooth powder, always pleasant. He rarely even perspired, which peeved me when after a long chase I was positively drenched and longing for a bath and change of clothes and he would be perfectly fresh and crisp and dry.  
  
At this point it occurred to me that I was—yes, I actually was—moving forward with my proposal. That I was eager to do so wasn’t what surprised me. That I was filling my head with thoughts of Sherlock did.  
  
Still, I had told him I would and I am a man of my word, so yes, I reached my hand down, and I wrapped it around my own prick organ [his own edit], and I began to pleasure myself.  
  
I am not a man who feels it necessary to wax poetic about the more carnal pleasures. I am not ashamed that I enjoy a good meal. I admit freely that at times I enjoy drinking to excess simply for the exuberance of the moment (and usually pay for it the next day). I admire and enjoy the female form—the more exhibited the better until the corset comes off; I do not enjoy seeing the marks that that horrible instrument of fashionable torture leaves on the fairer sex. But Therefore I am not hesitant to say that, yes, I certainly enjoy the most carnal of all pleasures, even when self-induced, and as no one else will ever read this, I can admit to myself that I have never limited myself to considering the female form when thus engaged.  
  
I think at that moment I sighed; it was a sound that escaped my lips as the lightest of breaths, but it carried with it the weight of years of pondering.  
  
Yes, on that particular Wednesday morning, with the fresh, cool air blowing over my skin, I finally admitted to myself that more often than not in recent times, a decidedly non-feminine form—a pale and angular one with short dark curls and flashing eyes—accompanied my solo sojourns into physical pleasure.  
  
The fact that that dear form was so very, very close to me—touching, actually—well  
  
I focused on the task at hand (did I really just write that? Sherlock will laugh himself giddy).  
  
I grasped myself fairly firmly; I was not just a bit stiff. I was cognisant that this was not a time to be particularly artistic about my efforts, nor exotic. In a sudden moment of self-awareness, I recalled exactly what I was doing.  
  
Would anyone ever believe it? I wasn’t sure that I did, even whilst I was doing it.  
  
I was quite energetically frigging myself for the benefit of my flatmate, who was pressed against me, his bare skin on mine, and now I could hear him breathing.  
  
I opened my eyes.  
  
“God, Sherlock.” The exclamation escaped my lips and to this day I cannot say if I was objecting or celebrating, for what I immediately perceived is that his beautiful eyes were intent on me—not just what I was doing but on my whole self. Yes, they were primarily focused on my hand (and organ; it was impossible to watch one without seeing the other, after all), but they also swept my entire body up and down.  
  
“May I remove your nightshirt entirely?” he begged. His breath was becoming rapid.  
  
“Yes.” I recall finding it difficult to keep my voice even. I stopped my actions and sat up a bit so he could carefully pull the fabric over my head. He flung it away in the direction of his own discarded garment.  
  
Ordinarily the sudden exposure of bare skin to the fresh air would have produced at least a shiver, but I found myself so very overheated that it was actually a relief. “That feels so nice,” I admitted as I lay back onto the headboard. I took myself in hand again, quite firmly. “Are you watching?” I asked somewhat facetiously. He didn’t reply—and my long acquaintance with him meant that I was aware that I had his full attention.  
  
I became rather more dedicated to my task. It had been a great while since I had gotten release. Not, as some might think, since I left my wife. No. I must admit to that vice as well. There were a few times (and only a few and they stopped completely after this particular event—but I am getting ahead of myself) that I visited the lowest of streets—the darkest of alleys, stinking and putrid—to which my friend had introduced me, and I fished coins out of my pocket for the distinct pleasure of being released by a hand that was not my own.  
  
I never took it further than that. Being a doctor, I was acutely aware of the risks of disease of the French variety. More than once a companion at my club—and many soldiers in my care before that—described the joys of carnal pleasure, only to succumb to their vices in the form of horrid illness and sometimes madness. I did not believe in the treatment of such ailments with mercury, which was the standard at the time, due to the horrific effects of the so-called medicine. So when I needed release, it was either my own ministrations or occasionally given a hand by a low woman in desperate need of the coins I handed over (and more than once I paid triple what was demanded in the hopes that the wretched creature would purchase some sort of sustenance and possibly overnight lodging in addition to the gin that was so prevalent a succour in their lives).  
  
No. This was not the time to consider the enormity of solving all the social ills of the kingdom.  
  
I began to stroke a bit more rapidly.  
  
Sherlock’s breath increased in tempo accordingly. “There’s… a liquid at the tip,” he reported.  
  
I ran my thumb over the slit; yes, there was. “That’s normal,” I explained, somehow keeping my head (Sherlock really doesn’t like my puns but his objections just make me laugh; he can be so serious about the most ridiculous things). “Why don’t you feel your… yourself? Do as I do.”  
  
He didn’t respond verbally, but there was the slightest shift of weight on the mattress. I gave him just a few seconds before glancing over. Yes. Yes he was. Sherlock Holmes, a man made mainly of brain and sinew and very little (no) sentiment was  
  
Frigging.  
  
God.  
  
He was definitely an amateur (as he was at other things; if I was known to occasionally overindulge in a fine Scotch, he could barely manage two fingers twice over), but due to his keen powers of observation, he was mimicking my more practiced motions.  
  
In other words, he had grasped his rigid prick (which had become a slighter deeper mauve and looked del ) [the word is as written in the manuscript] in one pale hand and was firmly and evenly stroking it.  
  
That vision nearly had me com-pleting my own act. [There is an odd squiggle in the middle of the word; the doctor was a gentleman and apparently found writing the word “coming” not entirely comfortable.]  
  
He was beautiful. His eyes firmly fixed on my own action, he was echoing them with his own hand and prick, and it was entirely apparent that he found it quite delicious.  
  
“Oh, John,” he sighed. “This is lovely.”  
  
I smiled. How naïve! How innocent! I wanted to [there is an abrupt change in ink at this point in the manuscript, as if there was a fairly long time between writing the beginning of this sentence and the completion of it]  
  
I am older now. I wasn’t willing to admit it when I first took pen to paper, but now it doesn’t matter. What I wanted to do was to take his prick in my own hand. I wanted to feel if his delicious fluids were there, at the slit. I wanted to run my thumb across his slit; to taste it on my thumb. To taste him. What does it mean that despite what I actually did that morning I found it impossible to describe in writing, even on paper that I alone would ever see, for so many years?  
  
Because what I did that morning in early summer was nothing if not brilliant, and I say that not only to compliment and buoy myself but to echo Sherlock’s own dear words that I heard over and over after that moment.  
  
“Is there more splendour yet to come?” he gasped.  
  
“Oh, God, yes.”  
  
And that was when I, Doctor John Watson, took my dear friend--who was so very, very much more to me—in hand.  
  
“Run your thumb over the slit,” I instructed. I reached over with my free hand. I demonstrated.  
  
He shut his eyes in rapture.  
  
“God, that’s incredible,” he sighed, unable to take a full, deep breath.  
  
“There’s more,” I explained eagerly. “Here.” And then I—even with the years that have passed and the knowledge that only I (and one very nosey flatmate—go away my darling!) would ever read this—I gently took his hand and, guiding it over to myself with my other hand, placed it directly on my prick.  
  
“Oh! It’s so hot!” he gasped, grinning. He looked down. I had wrapped my own hand around his and was attempting to guide his ministrations.  
  
There are no other words—there are no scholarly nor eloquent words—to describe what I was feeling at that moment. Not at all. There are only base, horrid, low-class utterances—only those could completely describe how I felt at that moment.  
  
I wanted to come.  
  
I wanted to spurt hot, sticky spunk all over that white hand; all over my own belly.  
  
My hips began to thrust of their own accord.  
  
I am—still—forever grateful that Sherlock is a frighteningly fast learner. Granted, my hand was over his, guiding it at first, but soon enough student outstripped master as he keenly observed my every twitch and reaction to his ministrations. My memories become jumbled at this point, but I know that my dear one was paying attention; capturing it all in his amazing mind; applying his newly-found knowledge with his delicate, strong, musician’s hands.  
  
“Yes,” I encouraged, my breath growing short. I was thrusting up into his hand, unabashedly. My eyes had shut so I could focus on the sensations flooding my body.  
  
Oh, I thought to myself. Do I warn him? Will that require an explanation? Is there time for an—there wasn’t. Not that day. My scrotum tightened and I knew I was going to tip over that edge. And then I stopped talking; stopped being the instructor; stopped everything.  
  
“Watch,” I muttered. And then I broke a commandment—I never could keep them straight as numbered--as my ejaculate spurted impressively across his knuckles, onto my belly and chest. “Oh, God!” I cried out. My eyes were tightly shut; my body rigid. And then I collapsed; completely wrung out. “That was incredible,” I managed to mutter.  
  
“Did I do it right?” Sherlock asked anxiously, and despite my prostration I opened my eyes again and looked closely at him.  
  
“Yes, of course. That’s the whole point of it,” I explained, back to the role of teacher.  
  
“Ah,” he responded.  
  
“Look, shall I…?” and I realized then that yes, he needed me to. I reached out and gently, carefully—very aware of how long he had been aroused—took his prick in my own hand. “Close your eyes,” I instructed, my voice rough. And for the first time [there is a final edit here; a line firmly drawn through the original text] with the experience of a master, I took his still-stiff prick in hand, ran my thumb over the leaking slit, and began to stroke him as I had so many times stroked myself.  
  
“Oh…” was his first reaction.  
  
Then, “Oh, God.”  
  
And then—finally—“Oh, John. I do love you.”  
  
I could feel his firm prick in my hand. It was, as he had initially reflected, different from my own, but it still wanted the same things; things that I was perfectly comfortable providing. This was no time for fanciful actions, though. This was a time to stroke and pull and rub and—  
  
“Oh, I feel so queer,” he breathed, his eyes shut, his head thrown back.  
  
“That’s a good thing,” I whispered back, ghosting my lips over his ivory skin. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”  
  
And then I felt the familiar, tell-tale tightening of his balls. I wanted to taste them; to taste him, from crown to toes, but that would and did have to wait (not long; it was only a week later but that’s another story entirely). I continued to stroke evenly and firmly; to whisper ministrations and supplications in his delicate ear—how lovely he was and how much I admired him and how much I loved him and how much I wanted to taste him and wouldn’t it be nicer if we got a big bed and shared it and let me run my fingers through your hair and I want to kiss you until you can’t breathe properly and I mean kiss ALL of you not just your mouth and yes that’s what people do and it’s the most lovely thing ever and—oh you are so close you are just give into it just leave it to me just let it happen God Sherlock I love you so very much and—  
  
We never did explain the laundry to Mrs Hudson and she never asked, and for that I am eternally grateful. For Sherlock Holmes, the most tightly-wound, self-contained man most people will ever meet, finally found the release he required.  
  
It was quite impressive.  
  
The sheets took the brunt of it.  
  
Yes.  
  
And when he was done I held him close and kissed him fervently (as I had wanted to for so, so long) and pronounced him the most beautiful creature on the planet and promised that we would never, ever be so self-contained and dishonest with ourselves or each other again.  
  
And then we managed (and it took ages) to sort ourselves and find something halfway decent to put on and to ring the most patient woman on the planet to finally bring us coffee and some breakfast.  
  
[The distinct hand of Doctor Watson ends here, but there is a codicil written in a very different handwriting; it’s a spidery, impatiently-scrawled script.]  
  
God, John, you do wax elegant about the most mundane things. Whatever you’re doing when you read this, stop at once and come to bed.  
  
And there is a space, and then a postscript to the postscript:  
  
I do love you.  
  



End file.
